Chapter 5 The Walls Coming Down.

The first time Rodney tried to kiss her, Daphne turned her head.

Just enough. Enough to make it clear: not yet.

They were in the elevator of her building. He'd walked her home after dinner-Korean BBQ, too messy for a woman who always looked like a Vogue editorial, and yet she'd laughed when the sauce hit her blouse. Laughed and wiped it off like she didn't care.

But the moment they stepped into her world-steel walls, security codes and silence-she became Daphne again.

Untouchable.

He leaned in. She stepped back.

And smiled, almost apologetically. "I'm not something you win," she said.

Rodney smiled too, as he replied, "I wasn't trying to win."

"Everyone always is," she replied.

For three weeks or even more, she kept him on the edge.

Sometimes they'd text late into the night, sharing memories neither of them had meant to say aloud. Sometimes they'd meet for drinks and she'd wear something soft, almost inviting-but the moment his hand lingered too long, she'd redirect.

Rodney never pushed. But he noticed how she looked away when the topic of her marriage came up.

Noticed how she answered questions with questions, like conversation was a courtroom and vulnerability was forbidden.

She never told him where she grew up. Never mentioned her mother. Always paid for her own drinks.

Rodney wasn't used to women like that. He wasn't intimidated. Just intrigued.

---

One night, she let him into her apartment.

Not into her bed. But into her space.

They sat on her balcony, wrapped in their coats, a bottle of wine between them and the city breathing below.

"I Googled you," she said casually.

Rodney raised an eyebrow. "Find anything interesting?"

She didn't look at him. "Nothing I couldn't have guessed. No family photos. No exes trying to shame you on Instagram. No write ups on Medium. No profile on Tinder."

"Are you disappointed? What were you hoping to find?" He said as he took another sip of his wine.

"I'm suspicious."

He smirked. "Of what?"

"That you seem too... clean."

Rodney paused, swirling the wine. "You're used to men with sharp edges."

"I'm used to men who hide them until they've already cut you."

Rodney stared at her as if he wanted to say more. Daphne was quiet.

He asked her, once, what scared her.

She rolled her eyes. "Failure."

"Try again. That's unoriginal for a lawyer."

She looked at him. Really looked. Then said, "Being seen."

Rodney didn't speak for a full minute. Then: "You don't have to be easy, Daphne."

She scoffed. "I'm not trying to be," she said.

"Good," he replied. "I didn't fall for easy."

She rolled her eyes. "What did you fall for?"

"Someone that would handle any litigation issues I have. I get into a lot of fights, you know." Rodney said, flexing his muscles jokingly.

"Oh please." She said as she stood up, collected the glasses, and went inside.

She didn't ask him to follow.

But he did.

---

That night, she kissed him first.

In the kitchen. It was gentle. It was romantic. It was a dare. Her hands curled into his shirt like she was trying to hold back everything she didn't want to feel.

He kissed her back slowly, deliberately. And then stopped. Just like that.

She blinked at him, breathless, confused.

"Why are you stopping?" she asked.

"Because you're using this as a weapon."

She opened her mouth-then closed it.

Because he wasn't wrong.

Rodney reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'll wait," he said. "Not forever. But long enough for you to realize I'm not the one you should be running from."

Then he left.

And Daphne stood alone in her own kitchen, lips still tingling, and hated how much she didn't hate him for walking away.

---

The next morning, she told herself it was better this way.

Rodney didn't belong in her life.

She was building something again. Reclaiming power. Stitching herself back together.

But that night, when her phone buzzed with his name and a stupid message-

"There's a rooftop jazz bar opening. I'd really love for you to be there. Please don't make me drink alone and spiral?"

She stared at the screen for a long time.

Then replied:

"Send me the address."

The storm had started sometime after midnight.

Rain smacked the windows of Daphne's apartment in erratic waves, lightning illuminating the room from time to time. The fireplace crackled in the corner, the only light left on. She hadn't moved from the couch in over an hour.

Rodney sat beside her, legs stretched out, tie loosened. They weren't talking. But it wasn't the bad kind of silence.

It was the kind that showed connection based off something deeper. The kind that held all the things they hadn't said yet-words trapped behind fear, uncertainty and the haunting guilty conscience that both of them were carrying secrets that could end this.

But they both stayed. In the silence.

Daphne took a slow sip of her wine, eyes trained on the fireplace. "Do you ever feel like if you stop moving, it all catches up?"

Rodney glanced at her. "Only every day."

She nodded, as if that was the answer she expected.

"You're one of the only people I've met," she said softly, "who doesn't ask me what it was like being married to Spencer."

Rodney let out a low breath. "I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to."

"That's the thing," she murmured. "I don't want to. I want someone to already know."

He was quiet for a second. Then: "Tell me what you want me to know."

Her eyes flicked to him.

She wasn't used to that. Not vulnerability framed as a choice.

Not someone asking to understand her.

She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. "He didn't hit me. It wasn't that. It was worse in every way. He convinced me that I was difficult to love. That I had to shrink to keep him. That I couldn't be everything he wanted. That I was a social experiment. That if I won too loudly, he'd leave. " Tears were starting to gather in her eyes.

Rodney pulled her closer. He didn't hush her down. He just listened. He let her cry and be vulnerable.

"It's alright, D. You are with me now and I'd never do anything to hurt you."

She stared into the fire. No reply. In as much as she wanted to believe him, it was hard.

Rodney's voice came low and steady. "My mother used to leave me notes before school. Every day. Just one line. Sometimes it was 'The one with the everyday smiley face is probably the saddest.' Sometimes it was 'Ask questions even when the answer scares you.'"

Daphne glanced over.

"What was the last one?" she asked.

Rodney's throat worked as he swallowed.

"'Don't become a ghost in someone else's house.'"

The rain pounded harder.

Daphne shifted, curled slightly toward him. "And did you?"

"Yeah," he said. "For a long time."

She didn't ask where. Or why. Or who made him disappear.

Because tonight wasn't about details.

It was about truth-the kind that couldn't be quoted, only felt.

---

She laid her head against his shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, she felt fully safe with him. It wasn't Daphne, the Ice Queen that sat beside Rodney. It was Daphne whose mom died in a car accident she was also involved in. That was the Daphne seated that night.

Rodney just leaned into her, forehead resting on hers, and exhaled like it hurt.

"I don't know what we're doing," Daphne whispered.

Rodney didn't answer for a long time.

Then he said, "I think we're trying not to drown."

She laughed-small, real. "That's poetic."

"It's honest."

She turned to face him, brushing her fingers against his jaw.

"You're quiet when I talk about pain," she said. "Most men try to fix it."

"I don't want to fix you, Daphne."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not broken."

That hit her harder than anything. Because it was the first time she believed it. Not because he said it. But because of how he said it. Like it was fact.

Then they kissed -but not like before. It felt right. It felt like home. Like shelter. The kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything but presence. The kind that felt like a home they were both still building.

---

Afterward, they lay tangled on the couch, the rain easing into a hush. Her cheek on his chest. His hand on her hip. No words.

He broke the silence first.

"Do you think love is real?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then, quietly: "I think it's real. I just don't think it always stays."

"Do you want it to?"

She looked up at him. "I want to believe it could."

Rodney smiled faintly, his hand brushing her hair back. "Then I'll try not to let you down."

She closed her eyes.

Not because she believed him.

But because-for once-she wanted to.

---

It was another date with Rodney. The restaurant was tucked away behind a bookstore in the suburbs, the kind of place where you had to know someone just to get a table. Daphne had discovered it back when she was married to Spencer-he hated it. Said the food was "too experimental" and the lighting made everyone look washed out.

Rodney loved it.

And more than that, he made her laugh the entire ride over, teasing her about her playlist. He made things feel easy, like she hadn't spent a decade building a bulletproof exterior just to survive.

The hostess greeted them with a smile so knowing it made Daphne wonder if she was wearing her glow a little too obviously. They were seated at a corner booth, dimly lit, candlelight flickering off her wine glass.

Rodney leaned back, scanning the room like he owned it-not in that loud, Spencer way, but with a quiet confidence that made him magnetic.

"I don't know how you found this place," he said, swirling his drink, "but I already forgive you for never telling me about it sooner."

Daphne smirked. "It's one of the few good things I got out of my last marriage."

He raised a brow. "Your ex had good taste?"

"No," she said, chuckling. "But I had to find things that made me feel... separate. Mine."

"Fair." He tapped his glass to hers. "To ownership."

They drank. For a while, they just talked. Travel. Art. That one time Rodney got stuck in a Algerian airport for twelve hours because he challenged a customs agent to a game of chess.

It was easy-until it wasn't.

The conversation shifted.

"So this firm you used to be at," he asked casually, "Belle and Baker... what made you leave?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I didn't leave. I followed my heart instead of my head. Then I had to claw my way back."

Rodney leaned in. "Heart as in Spencer?"

The way he said the name-it was too smooth. Too easy. Like it was already familiar to him.

Daphne blinked.

She hadn't said Spencer's name in this context before. She hadn't even mentioned him at all. It was always "my ex." No name.

"You remember his name," she said carefully.

Rodney paused. "You've mentioned it before."

"I don't think I have."

He took a slow sip, deflecting. "Maybe I looked him up. Curiosity. You're a public figure, Daphne. So was he."

Her stomach tensed.

She shifted the conversation. "What about you? You clearly know a lot about law. Your takes on case law are too specific for someone who just reads about it."

He shrugged. "What can I say? I have a thing for strategy."

"No, seriously. You've quoted rulings verbatim. Last week you cited an obscure appellate decision from 2003."

Rodney didn't flinch. "Maybe I dabbled. Pre-law, once. Didn't like the structure. Too many egos."

"Funny," she said, watching him closely. "Because that's not something most pre-law students get into. That ruling you quoted? Most practicing attorneys don't even know it exists."

He met her gaze, steady and unbothered. "Maybe I'm just well-read."

She stared at him. The silence stretched. She thought of the way he'd handled himself at that club. The way he'd known what to do, what to say. The way he never asked the kinds of questions most men did-about her father, the firm, the money. He didn't act impressed. He acted familiar.

"You're not just well-read," she said slowly.

Rodney leaned back. Smiled. "You think I'm a spy?"

"No," she said. "But I think you're hiding something."

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he reached across the table, took her hand.

"I've got secrets," he said. "But not the kind that'll hurt you."

That should've comforted her. It didn't.

She pulled her hand back gently. "If I find out you're connected to the Thompsons in any way-"

He raised his hand. "I'm not Spencer. Or his father. Or anyone in that world. If I were, I would've weaponized it by now."

"Unless you're waiting for the right time."

Rodney went quiet for a beat. His expression shifted. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

Then he smiled again-too easy. "I think we've hit your suspicion quota for the night," he said. "Eat your salmon before it starts suing for neglect."

Daphne laughed, but it was distracted. As she picked up her fork, her mind was already racing.

Because there was something else.

Rodney's last name-Merrill-was familiar. Not in a direct way. But she remembered Spencer once mentioning a cousin who went off the radar. Some family drama, something about a falling out over inheritance and legacy.

She hadn't cared at the time.

But now?

She wasn't so sure.

---

That night, after he walked her to her penthouse and kissed her goodbye, Daphne didn't go to sleep.

She poured herself a whiskey, sat by the window, and opened her laptop.

She typed:

Rodney Merrill – family ties Thompson

Her finger hovered over search.

Then she stopped.

Closed the tab.

She wasn't ready. Not yet.

But one day, she would press enter.

And if she was right-if Rodney was who she thought he might be? Because sometimes, even the Ice Queen wanted to believe a lie if it let her sleep.